When Roger and I first stood on that empty plot, I saw our future — golden hills, pine-scented air, and the dream home we’d imagined for years. We’d spent late nights designing, arguing over cabinet colors, and sketching plans on napkins. Every inch of that house was supposed to be us.bI wanted a big kitchen. He made it happen. He handled the paperwork, the mortgage — all of it. “Easier this way,” he’d say. And I trusted him.bThe day we moved in, I whispered, “We did it.” Roger wrapped me in a hug and said,
“Welcome to forever.”bBut forever didn’t last long. Roger grew distant — hushed calls, sudden trips, empty excuses. One day, looking for an insurance form, I found the property deed. It wasn’t in my name. It wasn’t in our name. It was in hers — Rachel Carter. His assistant. He’d given her our house. Before we’d even moved in,